Infinitude
by ravenclawphan
Summary: So...This is concerning Glee...Yes; that mortifying television series about the singing high schoolers... Anyways, I can't be bothered to the exertion of elaborating so let's simply instigate this and see how it progresses...
1. Un

_Ages 3-5_

"Noah! Stop that immediately! We do NOT throw food at other people! Now, snack time is officially over, so if you aren't going to eat your cookies, then please just come to the carpet. No, Noah! That means stop throwing the cookies at Kurt! STOP!"

Mrs. Blake arose, flustered, and scurried hastily to the plastic, colour-oriented tables and relative seating area, attempting desperately and in fallible vain to disarm the ammunition wielding, adrenaline diffused Noah Puckerman, gripping him swiftly and, opportuning his momentary paralysis at the unprecedented predicament, grabbing his hands and forcibly removing the cookie crumbs, proceeding to dispose of them dismissively and haphazardly.

She succeeded to upholster the squirming, vanquished toddler in her arms, whilst simultaneously promoting the other to dismally accompany her to the carpet consoled area, demonstratively ignoring and disregarding the whiny remarks of Kurt, complaining despondently about his soiled attire. She abraded both children to the rug, and upon the moment that she remotely altered her ferociously determined and undeterred grip on Noah's fidgety and insubordinate form, he leapt in utter euphoria from her arms and tackled a girl sat, premonitiously poised, on one of the indefinite, formidably handsome squares that adorned the quilted rug. He condemned her to the ground, tugging her hair unprovokedly as she squealed in agonizingly sharp and volatile gasps.

"Noaaah! Stop it! That huuuurts!"

As she casually and moderately consolidated the silently sobbing Kurt Hummel, Mrs. Blake was incapable of pursuing the insensible scenario occurring aside her. Fortunately, another of the several toddlers under her fragmentary daycare surveillance ambushed the circumstance in his own, conformed manner.

"Stop it," Finn yelled, pushing Noah off Rachel's damseled and debilitated, vulnerable position and glaring at him deplorably, "that's totally mean! You can't do that!"

Noah returned Finn's scrutinizing gaze with equivalent contempt, protruded his tongue mockingly and retorted, sputtering, "Says WHO, loser?"

"I'm not a loser!" Finn cried in dismay, approaching his peer, "YOU'RE a loser!" With this, Noah pounced, emitting a terribly inhuman and frankly perturbing noise, legitimately clawing at the other toddler, wrestling pertinently, despite the hazardous risk of being periled by Mrs. Blake.

The woman, in turn, about to curtly address the situation, was interrupted by a joyously tumultuous screech melded with an agonized scream.

She turned promptly to witness Brittany, horrified gaze adorning her countenance, her hands adhesively mangled perpetually in Artie's hair, the latter wincing in evident pain as the girl pulled, perceptively attempting to free herself. This extravagant mess of deprecating horrors were being nonchalantly evaluated by Santana Lopez, grinning and cheering as though she were experiencing some gleeful game.

"Go, Brittany! You can do it! Rip out all of his hair!" she yelped recursively, giddy with exhilaration.

"No!" Artie implored contractedly, "please don't rip out my hair. It hurts."

None of the commentary, however, seemed to register comprehensively in Brittany's petrified stance, as she continued to tug, willfully endeavoring her hands to break free from whatever residue enclosed substance had managed to adhere them to the other child's head.

Mrs. Blake rushed over, quickly yet gently succumbing her grasp unto Britt's arm, preventing her from pulling any further.

"Brittany, stop," she instructed firmly yet composingly, "you're only going to get your hands further entangled and I think you're hurting Artie."

"I'm sorry," she gasped, eyes apprieving with water, "I didn't mean to."

"It's okay," Mrs. Blake nurtured, "just stop squirming and I'll get you two undone."

Apprehensively stated, she cautiously accommodated both children in her arms, proceeding towards the sink. She permitted the caressing stream of cascading water to unravel whatever had conjoined the two, while Brittany murmured, considerably cheerier and tranquil, about the cold temperature of the faucet.

After her hands were successfully emancipated, she smiled unsurpedly, and joined Santana, who was muttering disappointedly about the orderly solution composed to an otherwise preoperative adversity. Lucy waddled over to them, grimacing considerably.

"God, Brittany, I can't believe you got your hands stuck in someone's hair. That's so stupid."

"Hey!" Santana retaliated, anguish contorting her previously expressionless face, as alongside her, Britt's eyes again began to well tearily, "you can't call her that! That's a lie and it's mean!"

"So?" Lucy disregarded her accusation underwhelmedly, "YOU'RE mean, and I don't complain. Besides; it isn't a lie!"

Thoroughly aggravated, Santana punched Lucy's arm, eyes condoning a fiery glaze of preconceived loathe and dissonance, "SO WHAT IF I'M MEAN?! YOU'RE FAT AND UGLY AND GROSS!" she snidely shrilled.

"Alright!" Mrs. Blake, agitated, separated Santana and Lucy prior to an inevitably heated and oppressive quarrel, "That's enough, now come on over to the CARPET!"

Whilst she acquainted the two girls to the rug, Brittany prevalently following in apparent ambivalence, Tina approached Artie, who had laboriously descended from the countertop, and stuttered solicitously, "Are you okay?"

Artie nodded affirmatively, smiling slightly, and the two walked conservatively to a secluded corner to accompany Mike, who was playing coincidingly with letter-blocks.

In the opposite corner were located Blaine and Kurt, the former aiding in cleansing the latter's clothing and assuring him encouragingly.

Through the individual, recently polished and effectively dusted window was the translucently endeavored view of Sam and Mercedes, plausibly playing hopscotch.

And all the while, the mutual and conceptive equivocation between Finn and Noah continued at the front of class, with Rachel viewing horridly, eyes widened in a preemptively collected muse, and, as the clock struck 3, instigating her dismissal from her tedious work, Mrs. Blake could not be bothered to attempt to discontinue the unnerving fight.


	2. Deux

_Ages 6-7_

"Do you think this is a bit much for the first day of school?" Kurt inquired pertinently and almost deliriously of his friend, Blaine, as he gawked at his excessively extravagant outfit consisting of practically shimmering pants and a form adorning jumper in the mirror, scrutinizing it thoroughly to assure that there were no blemishes or imperfections. He marveled at his own ingenious trepidations to maneuver and establish such a magnificent ensemble, while Blaine gazed at him rather erroneously in a dream-instated fashion, smiling strangely.

"I think it looks nice," he timidly offered, stepping down from the bed at which he was sat composedly, walking imperiously to stand adjacent to Kurt.

"Are you sure?" Kurt persisted, evidently unnerved by the prospect of appearing any feasible composition inequivalent to immaculacy, "we aren't in kindergarten anymore, Blaine. This is serious now; we need to look professional." He proceeded to glance spitefully and contemptibly at Blaine's own fashion decisions, which, in his precariously endeared opinion, still appeared far too childish.

"I know!" Blaine retorted defensively, exposing a gleaming bow tie contoured around the collar of his pristine white shirt, reveling in what he interpreted to be a smartly subtle counterpart to his original outfit, "look!"

"It's lopsided," Kurt remarked blatantly, observing the slightly crooked disarray of the bowtie's countenance. With an attentive frown, he subsequently reached over and adjusted the accessory, asserting its parallel state in comparison to the remainder of his attire. In his hasty analysis, his fingers brushed gently and unintentionally against Blaine's neck, upon which he recoiled slightly and succeeded to meet his sparkling brown eyes in a perpetual gaze.

They retained the sharp and serenely content stare for a lengthily protracted minute, until Kurt broke the incentive silence with an awkward cough.

"There, all better." He stated nonchalantly.

"Thanks," whispered Blaine practically inaudibly, proceeding to gaze proverbially into the instated mirror, appearing to be dreadfully immersed suddenly in the unprecedented aspect of his own appearance, though his considerations ricocheted in a haze of lost thoughts and perpetuations, his heart throbbing.

As an impeccably conspicuous blush began to appear on Kurt's cheek as he peered at his friend staring profoundly into the mirror, the door swung open, startling both children effectively. As they flinched simultaneously and turned to encounter the intruder, an apparently flustered yet astonishingly enterprising Mrs. Hummel entered, broad smile obscuring her face as she witnessed the two kids staring up at her, not noticing their momentarily petrified expressions as she walked in.

"My goodness!" she nearly shrieked, enthusiasm contorting her unfathomably delighted countenance, "You both look adorable! I need to get a picture."

She bounded towards the dresser in an exhilarated alacrity, quickly protruding a polaroid camera and turning to grin at the boys, somehow managing to maintain her breath.

"Smile!" she ordered cheerily, determined to obtain a decent photograph of her beloved child and his best friend on this significant initiation of grade school. Her undeterred mission was to procure a gorgeously pertained photo album dedicated solely to her son's transition throughout his school years, implicitly what she decided would be most memorable a portfolio to look upon and sob when he was attending university.

"Okay," she placed the picture carefully on the dresser's surface before addressing the boys again, "Now go on downstairs. Kurt's dad is making breakfast, and then Blaine's mother will be picking you both up to take to school." She smiled profusely, "come on!" she exclaimed as the children exchanged reluctant glances, "this'll be fun!"

And, thus stated, she persuaded Kurt and Blaine to accompany her downstairs, pretentiously unaware of the blandly distilled concurrence that had transpired minutes previously.

…

"Sam?" Mercedes entered the distinctly designated restroom in a tepidly tentative manner, approaching her classmate, whose eyes had been interminably focused in disgust and enquiry upon the mirror's reflection until she had arrived, upon which they jumped with remarkably potent coherence upholding her consistently. The shocked and utterly unraveled countenance on her friend's face inexorably caused Mercedes to giggle softly before adjourning her initial deliberation.

"What on earth are you doing in here?" she queried, profoundly intrigued at his imminently fidgety and unsettled qualities.

"Mercedes!" Sam exclaimed, abashed irrevocably, "this is the BOYS bathroom!"

"So?" she inquired ever frivolously and carelessly, impudently proceeding towards her explicitly unnerved associate, "Miss Kells said to go look for you 'cuz you were late for class" She stared at him concernedly, observing his preeminent gaze, conveying subdually an air of unsatisfied deploring and penetrating beyond complications of decisivity.

"Sam…" she faltered imperiously, cautioning her succeeding terms in a desolate discretion of genuine apprehension, "What's wrong?"

"It's nothing!" he replied mechanically, retaliating with a slightly exhibited presence of overenthusiasm and inert sensibility, "really, I-I just…" he desperately paraded an unfathomably incoherent abundance of troughed phrases and stifled words.

"Sam," she took his hand gently, moderately caressing it in an anticipatory uncertainty, "what happened?!"

He sighed reluctantly, accepting the inexorabilities unwillingly, grudgingly conceding to her graceful resolve, "It's just, his eyes swelled slightly, disconcerted, "Santana told me that my mouth looked weird, like really weird. She said that's why nobody was talking to me and that they were all making fun of me."

Momentarily aghast, Mercedes humbly regained composure, dismissing his concerns validatingly, "Come on! That's not true."

She shook him encouragingly, smiling undauntingly, "Santana says stuff like that about everybody. She told me last year that I looked like I had swallowed a walrus."

Sam glanced at her disbelievingly, implicatively engaging an eyebrow in secluded conversation, grinning remotely.

"It's true," she exclaimed copiously, grimace amalgamated with laughter, "and I just responded saying she looked like someone sucked out all her insides and that it wasn't Halloween so she shouldn't dress up like a skeleton."

Sam smiled wholeheartedly, emitting a benevolent snigger unrefinedly.

"There you are!" Mercedes stated, smiling predominantly, glint abrading her eyes, "your mouth is just fine. It can talk and laugh and smile, and frankly, that's all it needs to do."

"Thanks," Sam graciously placed his arm around her, embracing her appreciatively, and adoring the moment with a veneer of subintentionality.


	3. Trois

_Ages 7-8_

You could hardly accuse her, condemn the conceivable implications to be a fault of her own. She was not to blame. She could not be affirmed liable.

It was simply erroneous, atrociously unacceptable that such a stressfully frivolous day could assume Mrs. Abrams, to know explicitly the catastrophic preciosities amongst the complications. She had done absolutely nothing to deserve it. Nothing turmoiled in perpetuations to acquire the tension aggrieved her when she received the apprehensive call from her superior at work ordering her to arrive hastily, as immediately as feasibly comprehensible, to attend some facetiously nonessential collaboration and then file a myriad of insidious paperwork forms. She hadn't committed any convictably sinister malice, yet she was nonetheless disrupted from her perturbing work to be informed that her son had managed to be beaten and thoroughly battered on simply the fifth day back at school, and that, evidently, he was so solicitously pulverized that he needed to be asserted home.

And so, by just 11 A.M. that ferocious morning, Mrs. Abrams had already surpassed her limit of condonable strain. She drove somewhat recklessly, insensible of the havoc abounding the roads, whilst simultaneously admonishing her child in as moderate a manner possible in her disconcerted and frustrated state.

"Really, Artie," she chastised, glancing permeably at the reflective vision of the boy sat in the back, left eye bruised in a medley of repulsing colours and swollen excessively, also sporting a persistently bleeding lip. She shook her head disdainfully, confoundedly cursing whatever scenario had concurred this, "What the heck did you do to manage that?"

"It wasn't my fault," he insisted earnestly, staring unaccommodatingly in response to her query, reconciliation pertained, "the older guys said that I looked even nerdier with my glasses, and that they couldn't allow nerds to be in the school." The aforementioned visionary aids lay, mangled insufferably, adjacent him as he explained.

Mrs. Abrams grimaced, significantly deterred at the ignorant despicability complemented at what was allegedly a 'decent' school.

"Did you tell the teacher?" she inquired compressively.

"No..." Artie twiddled his thumbs anticipatorily, simultaneously tapping his foot, nervous precautions maiming his voice, "they said that they would k-kill me if I told."

"They WHAT?!" the woman turned sharply, abruptly, spiraling from her deliriously indistinct and imperiously distracted driving in distraught, facing her son disbelievingly, manifestation contorted in disgraceful awe.

And, in the unfortunate, unfathomably uncalculated and consequential moment that she embarked herself, the tauntingly amused and tickled traffic light changed promptly, and a rather large truck collided with them immediately, speed dauntingly rapid in almost unprecedented acceleration, jutting into the side of the vehicle, causing it to ensue comically airborne.

In yet another second's faction, the car was screeching to a preemptive halt, tattered horridly, a woman thrown from its contents.

As the concerned and petrified passerby and pedestrians instigated to approach her, quickly protracted to ensure her safety, the marred car erupted in a glowing construction of mesmerizing flames.

It ensiled a good five minutes before anyone could notice the child still trapped beneath the ignited vehicle.

"My son! My SON!"

The woman had sustained simply a few bruises and mildly conducted cuts, customary of the embellished gravelly roadside. Emergency services had been contacted insightfully, however, the concept of impedingly prospective aid could not console her, could not preclude her despair as the frantic yells echoed, chaotically hindering the sky, her screeches of dismay condemning and diluting the ricocheted incorporation, perpetually scarring, eternally unfolding.

The dastardly deplorable facades of unfathomably uniform policemen curtly attended to her upon instantaneous arrival, secluding her in vehement endeavors to contentedly reaffiliate the public, allured for illusion and purely detrimental and falsified reassurance. Inexorably present to rectify order, unperturbed by the prospect of stifling the terrified mother.

And thus, it squandered yet another twelve minutes before the irrevocably impaired vehicle could be effectively removed from atop the unconscious form, retaining a coherent composition in spite of the dreadful duration of the calamity.

However, even the police were momentarily appalled at the gruesome delivery cohered, curtesy of the cataclysmic situation, firmly and indisputably taken aback upon first witnessing the debilitated boy, crippled on the ground.

The black eye and bleeding lip were now accompanied with severe burns corroding the side of his face, as well as numerous scrapes and cuts produced by shattered glass implemented by the windows. His ribcage was disgustingly damaged, portions of bone extorting from the bloodied mass, tumultuous gore clinging to his clothes. A shard of impeccably derailed metal was embedded in his side, and his entire body appeared horribly distorted and awkwardly configured, spine adjusting in a horrifically unnatural manner.

The unidentified child's form was rushed in spectacular pretenses to the intensive care unit of the nearest located hospital, the hysterical woman escorted in an automobile opposite the concerted ambulance.

She was informed after arriving at the hospital building, eyes collaterally tear-stained in a distribution of deranged grief, that her son would be forced to remain in ICU for a week at the very least consistency.

"I don't care," she hissed maliciously, "just give me back my FUCKING CHILD."

Her anguish was reciprocated with a grappling of the callous essentials, complicity containing her upon mildly delirious circumstances under what could only be referred to as "house arrest."

And now, Mrs. Abrams was so thoroughly exemplified, certain that literally nobody could convey the remotest hospitality, that all the world had been destroyed, that she practically ceased to function. Nobody cared.

Nobody, except for 12, wide-eyed, mortifiedly apprehensive children, all of similar ages to the hit-and-run victim, perceptively anticipating for him to awaken.

And such, Artie regained consciousness a relative three days subsequent, wincing and basking, agonized, in the excruciating pain sublimed unto him, but smiling nonetheless when his friends entered to visit.

"OHMIGOSH!" Brittany squealed, horrified, as she hesitantly entreated upon the room, "Someone put his face back on!"

Tears had ambiguously assumed Tina's eyes as she contoured to embrace him, unconsciously oblivious to the slight flinch when she came in contact with his body.

"Hi," he offered timidly, voice putrescent as having been formidably unused.

"Holy cow," Finn gasped, "are-are you okay?"

"Yeah, no," Santana retaliated, rolling her eyes inexplicably, contempting his apparent idiocy, "I'm sure he's JUST swell."

"It's called being NICE, Satan," Lucy snorted revoltingly.

"It's called being DISGUSTING AND UNWANTED, Caboosey!" Santana retorted, face flushed.

"You're both being so rude," Kurt pertained, Blaine nodding his head succeedingly, squeezing his hand, "That's totally uncalled for."

"SHUT YOUR TRAP!" Santana screamed, affronted, and then proceeded to burst through the door melodramatically, Brittany quick at her heels.

"Insolent," Rachel muttered, as Mercedes spoke tentatively, "Are you hurt?"

"A little," Artie afforded admittedly, conceding to look at the group aside his bed graciously, "What are you all doing here?"

"We wanted to see if we could, like, help or something," Sam provided. Mike affirmed compositely.

"I swear, I'm gonna KILL those guys!" Noah growled indiscriminately.

"You shouldn't kill people, Puck," everyone turned to acknowledge Brittany, who had returned enigmatically in the doorframe, "It's not nice."

Artie smiled unassertively, "thanks, guys. But I think I'm okay. I-"

However, prior to concluding his statement, the doctor entered tepidly, appearing almost heinous in a retentive form. He was accompanied by Mrs. Abrams, who, upon being joyously reunited with her son, barely noted the ditheringly conformed frown perpetually disgraced in the man's scraggly beard as he ushered the children outside.

"So," he confronted the family meekly in deferential disdain, encountering the palatably decremented news, "It has occurred to our analysis that, unfortunately, Mr. Abrams' Lumbar vertebrae of have been irreversibly destructed as a result of the unfortunate collision incident, for specifically permeated clarification, fusions L1-5, in addition to a deviated sacrum."

He faltered indefinitely, desperately clinging to a formatted conductivity retaining a desolate abridgement, "What we're saying is that, that the patient's spine is, for lack of more appropriate term, broken, almost oppressively, in fact."

"Of course, you can still try for physical therapy, but the attempts are almost 100% certified to be futile and irremediable."

"It looks like Arthur Abrams is never going to walk again."


End file.
